Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles Read Online Free PDF

can’t ask you to make a choice. It has to be your decision.”
    “I’ve tried to go back. Truly I have. I’ve tried every bit of magic I know. I’ve stood at the edge of the wood and wished with all my heart. But I can’t break the spell. I even asked Chicory and his brothers to throw Pixie dust on me, and it didn’t work. If I can’t ever go back, then I want to be with you.”
    “I can’t take the chance that you’ll just disappear on me one day. You said there are things in Pixie you need to do, that you can only do as a Pixie. You have to commit one way or another. All or nothing. Let me bandage your hand. Then I need to shower and get to work.”
    His touch became impersonal and distant, like a medical professional. Like he put on a different personality, a mask she couldn’t peek under to find his true feelings.

    “Owwww, owwww, owww!” Chicory screeched.
    “Oh, hush. It’s just a scratch. You’re hardly bleeding,” said Mabel Gardiner. She dabbed at his arm with a piece of gauze that stunk of sharp chemicals.
    “You’re making it worse,” he sobbed.
    “No, I’m not. This is alcohol, and it will kill any germs from dirt and stuff.”
    “You’re killing me.”
    “Don’t be such a drama queen.”
    “Queen? Queen! I’ll have you know I’m not a queen. I’m as manly as any male you can name. Just ask Daisy.”
    Mabel rolled her eyes and shook her head hard enough for her tight curls to bob about. Chicory was the only one of her Pixies who knew that she indulged in bizarre ritualsand concoctions to keep her hair tightly curled and white with pink-and-blue highlights, instead of gray and limp.
    “I know, Chicory. I know. Drama queen means something else entirely. Now tell me how you got hurt.”
    “It’s not important.” Chicory hung his head. When Mabel said nothing, he peeked at her through his lowered lashes.
    She sat back in her cushy chair at the police department dispatch desk and folded her arms. “Talk or I’ll feed you to the stray cats behind the jail.”
    Chicory clamped his mouth shut on the words he wanted to say.
    “You owe me truth, little man.”
    “I owe you a manicured garden.”
    “Is that all you’re going to say?”
    “That’s all I
can
say. My arm still hurts. Can you put it in a sling?” He pouted and looked up at her in his best imitation of Peter Pan innocence.
    “Only if you’ll talk, and go looking for this child.” She shoved a piece of paper toward him.
    “It’s too close. I have to fly to get proper focus and perspective.” The black-and-white nose in the photo was as big as he was.
    Mabel held out her palm for him to climb onto, then raised him high enough that the flat photo took on more recognizable lines, shades, and shadows. “Maybe,” he said, twisting his neck to look at the image from all angles, including upside down. “Hard to say. The picture is flat. People aren’t. Pixie eyes don’t translate.”
    “This is not good, Chicory.” Mabel shook her head, pushing the picture out of the way and returning Chicory to the desktop. “You lost your hat. I know how important your hat is as a symbol of your magic. You were due two new petals added to the crown for your help with the Masque Ball in August.” She shifted topics but still held the cotton swab too close to the bloody scratch on his arm.
    “I loved my hat. And I can’t make a new one until next summer when chicory flowers bloom again.” This time he let his lip tremble.
    “So you aren’t talking.”
    Chicory blinked rapidly as if fighting tears.
    “Okay. I’m bringing in reinforcements.”
    “You wouldn’t!”
    “You bet your sweet patooty, young man.”

Four

    D USTY PULLED HER WOOL COAT TIGHTER around her as she paced the paths around the Skene County Historical Society Museum. Where were all the Pixies? They should be flitting about, gathering the last bits of pollen, nuts, and berries to tide them over the winter, or absorbing the stray shafts of low sunlight